


Phases

by mickeylover303



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Digimon, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Jurassic Park (Movies), Naruto, One Piece, Psych, Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeylover303/pseuds/mickeylover303
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of progressive and unrelated events following the course of one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phases

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Seven Mornings, West to East](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566) by [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli). 



"I hate getting stuck with you guys," Greg says half-heartedly, making a face at his shoes. He wrinkles his nose, a shudder passing through him as he picks at the collar of his shirt.

 

“Better than kissing up to Ecklie’s ass,” Warrick says unapologetically, opening his locker door.

 

“And that makes it okay when I’m sucking up to yours?”

 

Nick shrugs, taking a plain white t-shirt out of his locker. "Not my fault you're the only one who could fit through the pipe."

 

"Which means it’s mine, right,” Greg says flippantly, “because this is the perfect way to spend three o’clock on a Sunday morning: dirty, reeking, and ready to fall asleep in clothes that probably have traces of cement and remnants of that place where happiness dies by the smell alone."

 

“You’re overexaggerating, Greggo,” Nick contends, though the corners of his mouth are beginning to form into a smile. “It wasn’t that bad.”

 

“Because I sure as hell wouldn’t have let you in my car if it was,” Warrick adds pointedly, looking Greg up and down. “Never mind anywhere near me.”

 

“Technically, it’s—”

 

“Doesn’t matter when I drive,” Warrick says mildly, though his tone is somewhat mocking. “But at least the smell is gone.”

 

“After you voluntarily hosed me down,” Greg bites out. “And we didn’t even find what we were looking for.”

 

"Just try to think of it as taking one for the team.”

 

“Then how come I’m the only who takes it? Keeps taking it?”

 

"Seniority," Nick offered slyly, sharing a glace with Warrick that Greg doesn’t miss.

 

“I feel loved,” Greg says blandly, shrugging out of his damp clothes and methodically placing them in a plastic bag. “And I really, really need to take a shower.”

 

“Yes,” Warrick agrees, but the sentiment isn’t exactly helpful. “Yes, you do.”

 

“Did I already mention how much I hate you guys?”

 

“No you don't,” Nick answers without hesitation.

 

"Yeah, well...” Greg begins lamely, “don't come to me next time your back gives out on you."

 

Nick’s mouth falls open, and he does his best to ignore Warrick's not so quiet snickering. “That only happened one time,” he retorts, sending a glare in Greg's direction. “One time, and it wasn’t even my –”

 

“You’re the one who called seniority,” Greg mumbles in an attempt to defend himself. He can feel Nick’s eyes on him but busies himself by searching through his locker, looking for something that’s apparently not there.

 

He turns back to face Nick and Warrick, all traces of his earlier, though feigned, resentment gone. “Okay, so maybe I was quick to say anything because I won’t mind taking it for the team if one of said team can let me borrow a shirt.”

 

“You don’t have extra clothes?” Warrick says flatly, the question sounding more like a statement.

 

“I just remembered they’re in queue at my place…waiting to be washed,” Greg admits reluctantly. “And I don’t want to have to resort to picking somebody’s locker,” he adds jokingly.

 

“Don’t look at me,” Warrick says, closing his locker. “We already had this conversation.”

 

Greg only nods and, knowing Warrick won’t budge, turns his full attention to Nick. “After all I’ve been through for the past four and a half hours, would you really let me go home in a wet and dirty shirt?”

 

“Wouldn’t bother me,” Warrick says unnecessarily, garnering a noise from Greg that’s something between a cross of annoyance and protest.

 

Rolling his eyes at Warrick, Nick reaches in his locker to grab another one of his shirts and throws it at Greg. “Here.”

 

Greg catches the shirt in surprise, nearly dropping it. “Umm…” His gaze wanders to the shirt in his hands and then to Nick. “Thanks.”

 

Warrick snorts, shaking his head, but Nick is smiling.

 

“Still want to make a crack about seniority?” Nick says, almost playfully, and Greg feels like he’s missing the punch line to his own joke.

 

Greg chews on his bottom lip. “No,” he says quickly, unexpectedly self-conscious as he puts the shirt on.

 

**

 

“Oh man, where’d I put them?” a voice mutters, following a loud crash and the sound of paper rustling and falling on the floor. “Crap, crap,” the voice continues, this time followed by an aggravated sigh.

 

Somewhat aware of the commotion, Yamato groans in the bed, silently praying whatever fell is nothing fragile as he attempts to resist the urge to open his eyes. However, it’s inevitable that he opens his eyes long enough to see it’s still dark outside and see the clock read 5:37.

 

When his eyes close, he comes to the conclusion that it’s too damn early to for anyone in their right mind to be awake, and the strong desire to go back to sleep is the only thing preventing him from getting out of the bed and putting whoever woke him out of their misery.

 

“I could have sworn I had it here,” the voice says, and Yamato’s muddled mind determines the voice belongs to Taichi, the only person it can be.

 

Agitated, Yamato turns his head, placing his other cheek on the pillow that’s warm and not as cool as he likes it to be. He can practically see Taichi trying to manoeuvre his way around the room in the dark, looking for whatever he can’t find. It’s nice that he’s considerate enough not to want to wake up Yamato by turning on the light, but the gesture doesn’t do much when Taichi wakes him anyway with all that noise.

 

“Where’d I put them?” Taichi continues. His voice is louder, and right now, Yamato almost regrets his decision to share an apartment with his best friend.

 

"I remember putting them in my bag when I was in the locker room, unless Kei…"

 

There’s another sound of something heavy landing – and hopefully not breaking – on the floor, and Yamato shifts in bed, trying not to think of the mess he’ll find when the light does come on.

 

“Yamato, are you…” Taichi begins questioningly, to which Yamato answers with an affirmative grunt.

 

"Sorry, sorry. I thought you were still sleeping. That’s why I didn’t turn the light on,” Taichi says quickly, but the apology only serves to make Yamato more irritable.

 

Eyes still closed, Yamato growls and reaches for Taichi. Following his friend’s voice, he makes an attempt to grab the source of the noise that woke him and manages to get a hold of the hem of Taichi’s shirt.

 

Grip on the shirt firm, Yamato yanks a startled Taichi to the bed with a pronounced oomph, and tries not to wince when Taichi’s body falls unceremoniously on top of his. It doesn’t matter that Taichi’s bed is on the other side of the room because at this point Yamato only wants to go back to sleep.

 

“Yama—”

 

“It’s too early for this,” Yamato says tiredly, surprising himself by just how scratchy his voice sounds.

 

"Okay, well, since you're up, can you let me go so I can turn the light on?”

 

Groaning, Yamato resists the urge to strangle Taichi.

 

“I can’t find my cleats,” Taichi says hurriedly, finding it hard to move. “I saw them yesterday…in here somewhere. I know I brought them home with me, and I thought I put them under my bed, but they weren’t there, so–"

 

"Taichi," Yamato says slowly, sighing as he feels Taichi refusing to stay still against him. But holding Taichi against his chest, Yamato is determined not to budge even as strands of Taichi’s hair are tickling his chin.

 

"Yamato," Taichi murmurs against Yamato’s neck, awkwardly, still trying to pull away. “If I don’t find them, my coach is going to kill me because he won’t let me practice without–”

 

“It’s Sunday.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, probably only three seconds at most, as Yamato waits for the words to click in Taichi’s head. Sunday is supposed to mean no rushing to complete a term paper due in two hours, no early morning soccer practice that’s actually tomorrow, and leaving plenty of time to sleep in until twelve.

 

At least.

 

“…oh,” Taichi finally says, no longer struggling in Yamato’s hold. He laughs sheepishly, relaxing against the arm that refuses to let him go, and doesn’t say anything about the fact that he’s not in his own bed.

 

Ten minutes later, Yamato is back on the verge of sleep, and somehow his legs are tangled together with Taichi’s even though Taichi’s not under the blanket. But Yamato doesn’t complain about the arrangement when he hears Taichi’s soft and even breathing and feels Taichi’s warm breath on his skin.

 

**

 

"Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean says cheerfully, and the pitiful moan he receives as a response is enough to make the smile he’s wearing threaten to split his face.

 

Dean knows he sounds more enthusiastic than he should be allowed to at ten o’clock in the morning, but Sam’s getting over what he hopes is only a cold, and Dean loves to relish in his brother’s misery. Or so Sam claims when Dean makes him take those pills the night before.

 

He closes the door behind him and sets down a paper bag littered with grease stains on the small table in the middle of the dingy motel room. The two Styrofoam cups he’s balancing in one arm are set down, too: coffee for him and orange juice for Sam since vitamin C is supposed to be good for the immune system.

 

No more than a large lump on the bed, Sam’s curled up beneath a thin blanket. When Dean moves to open the blinds, Sam moans again, revealing long limbs as he drapes half his body over the edge of the bed.

 

“Turn it off,” Sam whines into his pillow. He makes a swipe at the light coming from the window, the effort fruitless, and his hand falls limply back on the bed.

 

Dean thinks it’s the most pitiful sight he’s seen in a while.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Yes,” Sam urges.

 

Dean responds with a shit-eating grin he knows Sam can't see and only laughs because Sam doesn’t sound so congested anymore. His fever is down from earlier this morning, and Dean knows Sam’s irritable because of the lack of sleep more than anything else.

 

“Besides,” he adds, “sun’s good for you. Want something to eat?”

 

When Dean opens the bag on the table, the smell of pancakes, eggs, and bacon permeates through the air, and he takes a seat in front of the TV to enjoy his breakfast.

 

“Oh god, no. No food.”

 

“You need to eat something,” Dean says thoughtfully, mouth around a biscuit topped with butter and honey. “Got you some juice for your throat. And you got your choice of biscuits, pancakes, eggs, bacon and hash browns…what do you want?”

 

"I want you to get the hell away from me," Sam moans dejectedly, throwing a pillow in Dean's general direction, which, for a sick Sam, means opposite the other side of the room where Dean actually is.

 

“No can do,” Dean says happily, maybe a little bit more forced than he wants to sound. But Sam’s been out of it for the last two days and looks much better than he did before. So Dean can’t help but feel relieved because he doesn’t want to think about that scary moment, relive those few seconds when he thought Sam stopped breathing.

 

**

 

Carlton takes off his sunglasses with a sigh, carefully putting them in his right coat pocket. He unbuckles his seatbelt, adjusts his rear view mirror accordingly (as he always does before opening the door), and tells himself he doesn’t jump when he sees a certain someone’s reflection staring back at him.

 

“Sweet mother of justice, what the hell do you think you’re doing in the back of my car, Spencer?”

 

“Apparently eating one of these pleasantly delightful slices from an orange Gus took the time to painstakingly peel and cut into fun, little bite-size pieces,” Spencer says, mouth full as he sucks on an orange wedge. A stream of juice dribbles down his chin, and Spencer licks his lips in a self-satisfactory way that makes Carlton pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“How’d you even – you know, I don’t care how you—”

 

“Your door wasn’t locked,” Spencer answers anyway, but Carlton doesn’t pay attention to the remark because he’s not the type of person who forgets to lock the door.

 

“Just get out before I have to remove you myself.”

 

“But you haven’t even heard what I’m going to say, Lassie.” Spencer reaches into a small, clear plastic container and offers Carlton an orange slice. “Want one?”

 

“No,” Carlton says pointedly. He notices the lid of the container is on the floor, there are no napkins to be seen, and realises his car is going to smell like citrus unless he cleans it—again, after already doing so yesterday. “I don’t want an orange, Spencer,” he says slowly, enunciating each word. “I just want you to get out of my car.

 

“Your loss.” Spencer shrugs at Carlton and swallows the remainder of the orange in his mouth. “And here I thought everyone was supposed to like oranges. Except, of course, the people allergic to them,” he adds plaintively with a shake of his head. “Those poor, citrus deprived souls.”

 

“Now.”

 

Carlton’s voice is strained when he speaks, and it takes more willpower than he thinks is humanely possible not to grab Spencer by the scruff of his neck. But he thinks of Vick’s threat of subjecting him to anger management sessions if information about his involvement in any more altercations heads her way, and it keeps him placated for the time being.

 

He almost regrets sending O’Hara off on her own to investigate the coffee shop the victim owned, silently wishing she was here to deal with Spencer.

 

“So, what’d I miss that’s so interesting about that boutique? Besides the fact that Rebecca Taylor works there,” Spencer says, draping his arms over the front seat on the passenger’s side. He ignores the sharp look Carlton sends his way. “I already told you it’s not the girlfriend.”

 

“And you would know this how?”

 

“Hello…” Spencer tilts his head to the side, waves at Carlton and then points to himself. “Resident psychic for hire, here. Or did you just happen to miss the newest addition to the hall bulletin board Officer Allen so diligently manages? It’s a shame really, because both Gus and I look quite dashing in our picture for employee slash employees of the month.”

 

Spencer places a hand on Carlton’s shoulder that’s immediately pushed away. “But I gotta tell you,” he continues without missing a beat, “you’re falling behind on the times, man. Which isn’t really that surprising, but it would absolutely behove you to keep up, you know?”

 

Carlton feels a headache coming on and almost expects Gus to appear from wherever it is he’s hiding. He almost wants Guster to be there and engage Spencer in some kind of off-beat conversation that would distract Spencer long enough so that Carlton can put them both out of his car and get away.

 

“But seriously, though, you’re looking at the wrong person. My senses did well to relay to me—very quickly I might add—that Rebecca Taylor was giving off vibes of the non-murdering persuasion.” With a short but dramatic gasp, Spencer places the back of his hand against his forehead, his elbow nearly hitting Carlton in the process. “Ah, yes, I sense it had something to do with her manager: Lawrence “Not of Indiana” Studebaker, if I’m not mistaken. Wait, wait…yes, I’m also picking up the colour green. And that’s ridiculously important because she wasn’t wearing green the day Robert Townsend was killed.”

 

Spencer’s hand falls back on the back of the chair and he sighs heavily, resting his head on Carlton’s shoulder. “You can check the security cameras outside the changing rooms if you don’t believe me,” he whispers into Carlton’s ear and is shoved into the backseat with a grin plastered on his face.

 

The man is a nuisance whose ego doesn’t need any more inflating, and Carlton doesn’t want to believe what Spencer says is true. But he can’t risk not knowing, and he’ll look into the tapes later when the Spencer is far, far away.

 

“Hypothetically speaking, let’s just say that Taylor didn’t kill Townsend,” Carlton says sardonically. “Then who did? Or do I have to fill in the obvious gaps with good old fashioned detective work because your ‘psychic powers’ aren’t enough?”

 

“Really, Carlton, I’m hurt,” Spencer says dully, but Carlton doesn’t care because that irritating grin is finally gone. “I never said you were looking in the wrong place, just at the wrong person.”

 

Carlton turns around in his seat, fixing a glare on Spencer. “If you’re going to tell me, then spit it out, Spencer. There’s some scumbag on the street who thinks he’s going to get away with murder, and I don’t have time to play your games.”

 

Spencer raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay” he says plainly, but his tone suggests the answer is something obvious that Carlton should have known. “My spiritual sources have informed me that the only crime Rebecca is guilty of is cheating on her boyfriend with the only man who had anything to gain by Townsend’s death.”

 

There’s a brief pause, and Carlton narrows his eyes in thought, sneaking a glance to the boutique across the street.

 

“The manager,” they both say at the same time, and Carlton frowns, waiting for Spencer to come up with some smart remark because Carlton hasn’t thought of the possibility until now.

 

However, Spencer stays quiet, resting languidly against the backseat with one leg crossed over the other and his hands behind his head. He looks entirely too comfortable in Carlton’s car, smiling knowingly in that ridiculous and infuriating smug way of his that Carlton is chastised to find a himself almost returning. But Carlton decides he’ll let it go one more time in favour of looking further into this Lawrence Studebaker character since it’s better not to take chances. He’ll turn the other cheek just this once, like he’ll probably tell himself somewhere along the line in the near future, because sometimes it’s not so bad working with Spencer.

 

And sometimes, seeing Spencer smile isn’t so bad either.

 

**

 

The galley is messy, like he already surmises it always will be after every meal, and Sanji uses the time between serving lunch and preparing dinner to clean.

 

He plays with the unlit cigarette in his mouth, intermittently chewing on the butt, and decides to start with the dishes. Blocking out the sound of Zoro’s snores coming from the corner of the wall nearest to the sink, he hums a song he can’t remember the words to because he doesn’t feel like fighting with the idiot until the dishes are clean.

 

With the exception of the useless swordsman, Sanji is left to clean by himself. Of course, he can’t imagine asking someone as precious as his Nami to sacrifice her lovely hands for something as degrading as menial labour. Even with the traces of calluses Sanji chooses not to see on her dainty palms, her hands are still soft and smooth and especially pretty when her long, elegant fingers are wrapped around a glass that offers fine wine to her lips.

 

No, it’s something only people like Luffy, Usopp, and Zoro are good for; however, Sanji doesn’t trust Luffy and Usopp not to break anything or not raid the food supply.

 

Zoro has yet to offer to help, and Sanji won’t ask. He’s still doesn’t feel particularly close with any of the crew, Nami (he grudgingly admits) included, and least of all Zoro. And Sanji doesn’t see any reason to forcibly confine himself in a small space with the other man. It’s bad enough Zoro makes it a habit to sleep in the galley every now and then while Sanji is cleaning, and every now and then Sanji is nice enough not to kick him out. And those times when he does let Zoro stay, he can’t really bring himself to complain about the almost quiet company.

 

Although in all honestly, Sanji doesn’t mind taking sole responsibility to clean. The kitchen is his home away from home despite the fact that he doesn’t really have anything he can call that. Anywhere on the sea is a place where he can make himself comfortable and only sometimes does the uncertainty bother him.

 

Growing up with Zeff is the closest thing he can think of as home, but Sanji leaves the Baratie without much regret – except he still feels obligated to that shitty old man for reasons he doesn’t want to dwell on.

 

During the day, he can piece together why he’s here. He doesn’t question his role as the cook on the Going Merry or why he follows Luffy. The thought of being on his own for the first time feels right, and it’s easy to rest his hopes of a silly dream on a group of people who have such a presence in his life.

 

But some nights, he finds himself wondering if that’s all he wants to find on the Grand Line. If it’s really just discovering All Blue, and following Luffy isn’t really as much as a means to an end as he once believes it to be. He’s not sure of the moment it becomes something more, but somewhere between getting on that boat with Luffy and leaving the remains of Arlong Park, it’s no longer simply about Sanji’s dream.

 

A little whimsical maybe, but by travelling alongside his beautiful Nami, a wayward captain, that poor excuse for a swordsman, and that perpetual coward, All Blue becomes part of their dreams, and Sanji almost smiles at the thought of being able to share something so important to him with other people.

 

He wipes his wet hands on the apron that Nami bought for him. It’s white but frilly around the bottom, and Zoro and Usopp know better than to make fun of Sanji anymore after being kicked in the head repeatedly for making fun of him the first time. He takes off the apron with care, treating it like the gift it is, and hangs it on the hook by the doorway. The dishes are washed, dried, and put away, and he takes a seat on the floor beside Zoro, well aware he won’t be able to mop the floor until he makes the other man move.

 

The kitchen smells like soap and the tuna from lunch, and Sanji lights his cigarette to clear the air with the smell of tobacco. It’s his first cigarette since yesterday and a much needed relief after dealing with his crewmates on an hourly basis.

 

He inhales deeply, allowing the cigarette to smoulder as he thinks of what to make for dinner. There’s a certain dish he wants to make, his own variation of a Blanquette de veau. But ingredients like Bayonne ham and veal are rare to come by in the sea, and the insecurity from his days as a kid hasn’t quite burned away. The thought of Alicot crosses his mind. It’s a simple stew, yet can be refined at the same time, and gives Sanji the opportunity to use the giblets left over from the chicken he cooked yesterday.

 

He’s prepared it before with no objection, and while the crew never really asks for much in the way of food, Sanji actually likes taking the time to make something that’s not so commonplace.

 

Naturally, Nami modestly only asks Sanji to prepare whatever he thinks is best, and Sanji uses it as incentive to try that much harder to please her delicate palate.

 

Zoro is far too simple-minded to appreciate such fine tastes as his beautiful Nami does, but never fails to clear his plate without complaint. He’s much like Usopp, in the sense that either will eat whatever they’re given if it tastes good. But unlike Zoro, Usopp will occasionally say something that catches Sanji by surprise.

 

The first time he does it, Usopp mentions Sanji’s cooking reminds him of the grand and lavish food given to him that was made by the royal kitchens of an exotic kingdom, a reward from the king himself for saving the beautiful princess from an evil magician that hid her in a tall, dark tower. It doesn’t take long for Sanji to remember that Usopp is a liar, and Zoro and Nami join Sanji in reminding Usopp, as well. But Luffy continues to listen to Usopp’s story attentively, and Sanji eavesdrops carefully, not telling Usopp that some part of him feels flattered by the words.

 

However, to Luffy, food is food, and Sanji leaves it at that. As long as there’s meat, Luffy is none the wiser, and Sanji is somewhat disheartened by the fact it takes so little to appease his captain.

 

He takes another drag of his cigarette, switching it to the other corner of his mouth. He needs to finish cleaning so he can start dinner before Luffy wanders into the galley looking for something to eat, effectively distracting Sanji from cooking.

 

Removing the cigarette from his mouth, Sanji inhales and blows a whiff of smoke in Zoro’s face, not deterred by the lack of reaction from the other man.

 

“Oi,” he calls out, nudging Zoro’s leg with his knee.

 

“What do you want?” Zoro says with a lazy drawl. His arms are crossed over his chest, eyes closed, and Sanji almost thinks he’s still asleep

 

“Wake up,” Sanji replies, smirking around the cigarette he’s already put back in his mouth, “Ma-ri-mo.”

 

**

 

He wants to think they’re safe, that the worst is over, but Alan’s stuck in a tree for the time being, and the reality of it makes it hard to contemplate the idea of something as simple as seeing tomorrow.

 

But at least it’s not so noisy anymore. Far from it, and if he keeps his eyes closed, he can almost imagine he’s back in Montana, back in the trailer again, sharing a too small bed with Ellie even though it’s so humid it feels better to sleep without their shirts on.

 

The bark is hard on his back, but resting against the tree isn’t as uncomfortable as it should be with Lex and Tim settled on either side of him. It’s almost relaxing, too, almost nice, but it still smells, though.

 

Like mud, vomit, and blood.

 

**

 

"You’re late, Potter," Draco says impatiently at the figure lurking in the shadows behind him. "Well, later than usual at any rate, with me standing by myself in a dark alley and whatnot. Waiting for you like I’m waiting to chance something bad."

 

Harry sighs, removing his cloak and stepping into the glimmer of light afforded by the torch appended on the brick wall. "You shouldn't be so...so..." He trails off, courage faltering and lips pursed into a frown, as if he's unable to think of the words he thinks he’s supposed to say. "I could have been–"

 

"Someone on the long list of people who want to kill me?" Draco supplies readily, unconsciously rubbing an itch on his forearm, scratching at the thick and cheap material covering his skin. He scoffs, drawing Harry's attention away from the action. "I knew it was you," Draco replies calmly, back still turned to Harry.

 

Repressing a frustrated groan, Harry reaches for Draco's shoulder, but finds himself retreating when Draco turns around. If Draco is aware of the near gesture, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and Harry is grateful he can pretend it never happened.

 

“I know you,” Draco says, only his voice is less confident this time, and with a petulance that reminds Harry of the childhood they both left behind. The tone is reminiscent of the Draco before the war broke out, and Harry isn’t sure which one he prefers more – if knowing Draco now is worth the price of this nostalgia.

 

“…Draco…”

 

“How can it not be you?”

 

"What if it wasn't me this time? Or…or what if it isn’t me next time because I’m…” Harry says tightly, finding himself unable to continue the train of thought.

 

Draco narrows his eyes, facing Harry defiantly. There's a tint to his gaze, a calculated look that Harry would call arrogant if he didn't know better, and a flicker of something neither one would admit to as fear. It almost makes Harry want to recoil from the intensity.

 

Then it's gone, no more than a moment in time, and Draco tries to replace it with a smile. But his lips are trembling, eyes glossy even in the dim light, and the chaste kiss he shares with Harry makes this encounter between them seem awfully finite.

 

"Shut up, Harry," Draco says softly.

 

And Harry does, if only because the image of Draco is suddenly blurry even though Draco takes the time to adjust the glasses resting crookedly on Harry’s nose.

 

"Or don’t bother making promises you can’t keep.”

 

**

 

Jack leaves without a word, taking the severed hand with him, and it only takes two days for the team to begin to fall apart. They hold together better than Tosh initially anticipates, but the tension is unbearable on the third day, and it’s barely midnight when Ianto knocks on the door to her flat.

 

She lets him in even though they’re not quite friends; at least she doesn’t think they are. Still, she doesn’t want things between them to become more awkward as it is.

 

But it’s inevitable that they do anyway, and when Ianto thanks her for the hospitality, Tosh returns the gesture with a harried kiss because the image of Gwen leaving with Owen earlier today is still heavily engrained in her mind.

 

He kisses her back, somewhat reluctantly, and they almost fuck, though not really, because after he presses her against the wall in the bedroom, Tosh finds herself no longer in the mood. It’s almost too easy to be the one who’s not used this time, to be the one who’s willing to take advantage of someone else, and she realises it’s even harder to resist when Ianto is just as willing to be used. It unsettles something horrible inside her stomach, and she pushes away from Ianto without protest or any further mention of the matter.

 

Eventually, Ianto dozes off beside her, weary and easily lulled by the soft hum of voices from the television Tosh isn’t really watching. Bright light from the screen reflects on her face, keeps her awake with thoughts of Jack and Owen and Gwen.

 

She almost wonders what Ianto’s dreaming about, if he’s dreaming of anything at all, but she stops in time to bring herself not to care.

 

Her mind haplessly wanders back to the kiss, something physical and unattached, and Tosh briefly wonders what Ianto is like outside of his comfort zone, during something as spontaneous as sex – the man she secretly, maybe even desperately wants him to be, or the normally rigid man she doesn’t care to know. But then she remembers Lisa and Jack and contents herself with wrapping an arm around Ianto and resting her head on top of his.

 

So it’s okay if they’re just sitting on her bed, with Ianto fast asleep on her shoulder. It’s okay for her fingers to dance on the back of Ianto’s neck, linger on his skin because she’s not Lisa or Jack, and he’s not Owen, and that’s all it is.

 

And it’s okay that Jack finally has his Doctor, and Gwen has her choice of Owen and Rhys, since it's only fair that Tosh has Ianto to herself.

 

It's only right that she has somebody.

 

**

 

The moon is pretty, Naruto thinks. Pale and bright and other meaningless clichés because those are the kinds of words he knows, and it’s the only way he can describe it. When he sees the moon, he forgets the stars, and with Sasuke, it’s not all that different.

 

When Naruto sees Sasuke, the rest of the world dissolves into darkness, and he can’t stop peering into Sasuke’s eyes. They’re bright despite their colour and maybe even more so because Sasuke’s face is too pale. The contrast is stark, almost bleak, and each time Naruto looks, he finds it harder not to get lost in that gaze.

 

He tells Sakura about it once, when the two of them leave Konoha to search for Sasuke. They’re sharing a sleeping bag because it’s too cold, but in truth neither of them wants to be alone, and they hold each other as Naruto whispers to her his thoughts about Sasuke and the moon.

 

She calls him stupid for thinking of such things, though she doesn’t stop pressing her face against his shoulder.

 

But then he asks if she ever thinks Sasuke feels lost when he stands in front of the mirror. If she thinks that’s why Sasuke can’t find his way home.

 

Lifting her head, Sakura looks at him strangely. Her heartbeat is erratic, pounding in Naruto’s ears until a shudder passes through her body, and she forces herself to calm down. The silence between them is too long, and she hesitates before she answers and tells Naruto she doesn’t know.

 

Naruto only blinks, feeling Sakura burying her face in the crook of his neck. It’s not the answer he wants to hear, but it’s enough when Sakura takes his hand in hers.

 

She begins shaking in his arms, but Naruto doesn’t have anything comforting to say in return because he can only see the stars tonight. His mouth becomes dry, and he licks his lips, turning away so he won’t see Sakura cry.


End file.
